Tiny suns on stems that wave and shout|
To the bumblebees that loll about
Are held by men as a menacing scourge
Upon yards and gardens which they must purge
Yet, by hand or poison or steel spade
Which torment the turf where their roots are laid,
They won’t succumb and are sorely known
To sprout soon after the grass is mown.
They seem each to have an iron will —
I see some now from my window sill,
Brooding tall long after the roses have gone;
Green bristles of life on the Winter lawn.
Gardeners may choose which lives or dies...
The easiest, I guess, on the viewer’s eyes.
But who’s to say out of all that grows
Is prettier, a dandelion or a rose?
Joseph I. Middlesworth
© 2019 ishmael
(All rights reserved)